


By the Docks

by junes_discotheque



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Crossdressing, Internalized Homophobia, Javert is badass, Javert is in denial, Javert is only doing his duty, M/M, Madeleine Era, Masturbation, Monsieur le Maire has many complaints, Russell Crowe's Little Blue Gladiator Dress, Valjean gets very distracted, Valjean has slightly fewer complaints, hooker!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert frequently disguises himself as a prostitute in order to stakeout the docks for crime and things. One night, as he waits for a suspect, M. Madeleine approaches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catnipsoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catnipsoup/gifts).



> So, hooker!fic. Javert has a lot of feelings, Valjean is quite conflicted, and there is a little blue dress.

Javert was a man who regarded his responsibility to the town he served and to the law with more vigor than to his own well-being. He cared little for the abuses his body suffered under the yoke of a tyrannical superior—though he had not experienced such since his time as a guard in Toulon—and, similarly, could not hear the jibes and whispers made behind his back.

And there were whispers, rumors, about him as much as about everyone else, but while the others rose easily to the bait and were shot down just as fast, it was as though Javert lived in a separate world. It was not long before the whispers ceased. Deviant they may have called him, but his record was impressive and unblemished and even the most crass among them could not find reason to dismiss it.

He did not go to the docks every night. It was, in fact, not unusual for weeks to pass between Javert’s visits. But the itch would arise sooner or later and Javert would find himself there, patrolling, disguised as one of the ladies.

It was not lost on him that he made a truly poor lady. His shoulders were too broad, his arms too thick, and his hair short and gray. Even when he shaved his beard and donned a cap to hide what he could of his face, he was wretched. Nevertheless, he was approached. On nights he wished to be left alone he would wear a long gray gown that covered his body; for the rest, he wore a tight blue thing that stopped just above his knees. It was obscene. The ladies avoided him when he wore this, as they knew just what it signaled, and Javert would draw drooling men to his bed.

Luck alone saw to it that he was never recognized as the good Inspector by any but a few trusted sources, though he supposed if anyone did notice the resemblance, they would surely dismiss it—after all, the idea that a man of the law would behave in such a way was ludicrous. They would not know Javert’s motivations. They would not see that it was merely a ploy to uncover wrongdoings. After all, there were things a man tells a whore that he could not voice to another living soul. Secrets of crimes and passions that Javert devoured with the same zeal he would show the following day, when he found the men again and bound them in chains for their confessed deeds.

The routine had proved excessively fruitful. Many dangerous men were taken off the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer. The Mayor even afforded him a special commendation for his work, which Javert was reluctant to accept until Madeleine threatened to have him suspended if he did not.

And that was another matter that Javert did not understand. M. Madeleine had an odd preoccupation with Javert’s well-being. Many times he had insisted Javert dine with him, or had tried to give Javert gifts of clothing and food and money. Javert had rejected it all, as often as he could, but Madeleine would still find ways to make Javert allow his charity.

He wondered if Madeleine understood what it did to him, to be in the other man’s debt. How a part of his soul felt as though it had been torn from him with each gift. It left his honor in tatters, left him no better than the beggars on the streets when he had toiled for so very long to escape those same gutters. 

Javert was not a proud man. He could suffer indignity. He would not, however, suffer insult.

And so it came to pass that he crouched on the stoop of a brothel known for catering towards men of deviant proclivities, one bare leg stretched obscenely in front of him. He was certain that one of the men who frequented this brothel was responsible for a rash of robberies in the city and no few from the dock-workers. If he would appear, Javert would be the first to see him and take him into one of the bedrooms, and there he would learn if his suspicions were correct. 

The matter of his bread having run out a week before he was due to receive his salary, and rent coming due even before then, was a different matter entirely and one that certainly had no bearing on Javert’s investigation. 

He drew his cap over his eyes when a group of lady-whores passed. By now, however, Javert was well-known and they came to a stop, giggling amongst themselves.

“Hello, my dear Inspector!” one of them chirped. She crouched down and tilted his cap back so that he was forced to meet her eyes. She was a pretty thing, under the filth that coated her skin, and she had wide brown eyes and a lovely smile. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with a piece of netting. He did not flinch as she drew her fingers across his cheek. “Who are you arresting tonight? It’s not us, is it? Because I swear, my sisters and I have been very, very good.”

Javert forced a smile. “No, no, ladies. But trust, when the man I seek is behind bars, everyone here will be better for it.”

She rose and nodded. “Then I leave you to it, and I wish you luck.”

The others followed her away, save the smallest—a girl who could not have been more than fifteen and who carried a basket on her arm. She reached inside and pulled out a small roll of bread.

“You look thinner than when I saw you last,” she said. Javert took the roll in silence, merely bowing his head in thanks, and did not question how or why the girl remembered.

He did not question, either, why the deviant character would accept the charity of a whore over that of the Mayor. Such quandaries would lead to nothing good, and there was enough nothing good that night to be going on with.

He nibbled slowly, trying to make the roll last while still knowing there was no way to take it home with him. As he ate, Javert became lost in thought, so that when he felt a cold stick running up his leg, it took him several long moments to realize.

“Monsieur,” Javert said softly, peering up at the man’s face through his lashes. It was hidden in shadow. “Won’t you come closer? Into the light, let me see you properly.” He hitched up the hem of the short blue dress further, exposing the line of his thigh. “Please, Monsieur.”

The man leaned in then, and Javert saw him, and he saw Javert.

“Inspector?” 

There was an expression of shock and disgust on Monsieur le Maire’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been a little nuts (convention, laptop broke, new laptop had internet problems, work computer was crap) but updates should come much quicker now. Watch me eat my words.

There had been a time, three decades and two lifetimes ago, when Jean Valjean risked everything for a few mouthfuls of bread. When a few sous felt like all the riches in the world, and when his most comfortable nights were those when his mattress was not soaked through. He could barely remember it now.

There had been another time, much more vivid in Valjean’s memory, when he longed for such comforts as a mattress and a blanket, and such extravagant wares as the ones he enjoyed as a free man. He loathed to think upon those years, going so far as to wrap his wrists and neck tightly with lengths of cloth to hide his scars.

He was Monsieur Madeleine now, the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, wealthy factory-owner and a gentleman of great esteem. He had enough money to live comfortably and to pay his employees well, and afterwards, even more to hand out amongst the city’s poor. For he remembered those days when he was so desperate that he turned to burglary and thievery and found himself chained for nineteen years, and as such, he would ensure that none of his citizens would be forced to make the same choice.

It was a foolish dream, naive and blind to human nature, but the kind-hearted Madeleine gave charity all the same. Many were grateful for his attention, but many more were too proud to accept his gifts, and Madeleine was forced to slip a few francs beneath their doors or through the window at night or to otherwise find a way inside.

After all, he had more money than he could reasonably expect to spend within his lifetime, and he had a debt to repay.

It was all well enough until Inspector Javert was stationed in M-sur-M, and Madeleine found himself first despairing--for certainly if he recognized the former prison guard, Javert would recognize him--and then pitying. Javert did not recognize him, or if he did, gave no outward sign of doing so. And when Madeleine tried to give him a few extra francs for his service, so that he might buy a second pair of trousers after a brawl left the knees of his only pair torn beyond mending, the man refused.

Madeleine found himself fixating on the man he had once feared and despised in equal measure. The Inspector managed to purchase a new pair of trousers, but for the weeks following, he grew steadily thinner and more unkempt. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he carried a filthy handkerchief to press to his perpetually-running nose. Again, Madeleine attempted to offer the Inspector assistance--medicine to cure his fever, a few loaves of bread to sate his hunger, a new coat to keep him warm. Javert continued to refuse him. Madeleine tried leaving a basket in Javert’s apartment, but come the morning, the basket was sitting again on Madeleine’s desk.

The only assistance the Inspector would agree to was a small bonus for apprehending wanted criminals. And Madeleine watched as, near the end of each month, the prisons would fill to the brim with Javert’s arrests. He tried to offer yet another bonus, but this too was refused.

And so, Madeleine found himself conceding. Though the Inspector still occupied much of his thoughts, there were still others in need of assistance. Young children who were going cold, and old men who were going hungry, and the women at the docks whom Madeleine had spurned for far too long.

Yes, he decided. That was where he would go tonight, with coin and bread. It would take his mind off the fever that had once again taken Javert and the insulted expression on his face when he was offered help. It would give him peace to have his assistance accepted for once, rather than derided.

He bundled his thick wool coat around his shoulders and locked up for the night. The walk down to the docks was not especially long, nor particularly dangerous, but he felt a sense of apprehension all the same. The chill seeped through him, freezing his bones, and he marveled that the women in their loose, thin dresses could stay warm.

There was a long, winding road that ran parallel to the old shipyard and was lined with brothels. Some catered to men of means, and some catered to men of none, and at the very end there was a house that was only whispered of--for men of perverted tastes.

Madeleine found himself drawn to this house, though many of the women who approached him warned him away. He simply gave them a few coins and a bite of bread and cheese and sent them away. Some accepted; some refused; some attempted then to thank him in their way and were insulted when he declined.

The house was built downhill and as such was slightly tilted. It was better-kept than the houses to the right and left of it, showing that the owner at least gave some care to the comfort of clients if no one else, but the few windows were covered with cloth and a large chunk of wood was missing from the very top. A smattering of uneven stairs led to the doorway, which, though it had clearly once been quite grand, was now rotted-out with only one side of the door remaining on its hinges. In the doorway sat a figure, clad in a dress that fell scandalously above the knee, and Madeleine felt his heart lurch. Pity, he reasoned; pity that the creature was so exposed to the harsh elements. Carefully, he knelt at the foot of the stairs, though he slipped somewhat and found the handle of his walking-stick catch underneath the skirt. He jerked his hand back, an apology on his lips, when the sight of Inspector Javert’s face made him freeze.

“Inspector?” he asked. Javert’s heavy eyes were wide, and he looked as though he would have scrambled backwards had he not been braced against the wall. “What--my good man, what are you doing out here? And dressed like--” He could not say it.

Javert ducked his head. “Monsieur, please, leave me,” he muttered. “I am... There is a man who comes here, a known thief, and I intend to apprehend him. He will be here soon, I am sure of it.”

“No,” Madeleine said. “No, Javert, I--please, allow me to take you inside, so that you might warm up. If your criminal comes I swear I will disappear. It is far too cold to sit outside in the nude.”

The Inspector tried to protest, but was overcome with a fit of coughing. Madeleine took the opportunity to lift the shaking man in his arms. Javert had become so thin--how had he not noticed it? Perhaps he had been wearing every layer of clothing he owned, to hide his emaciated figure; perhaps Madeleine had simply been unobservant. But no, how could he have been, when every thought not spent in dreams was inevitably turned to Javert’s welfare?

The dress Javert wore was light blue, and it was indeed obscenely short, showing off the graceful line of his calves and the soft meat of his thigh. Madeleine found his thumb catching under the garment and rubbing there, just above Javert’s knee, before circling higher. Javert had stopped coughing and was shuddering now, jolting in Madeleine’s arms as he ascended the stairs.

Finally, he made it to an empty room. There was a mattress in the middle, and a wash-basin in the corner, and a few filthy blankets piled at the end of the mattress. Madeleine sat Javert gently down on the mattress and could not bring himself to glance away as the man’s skirt rode ever higher and he struggled to adjust it.

“There, now, I am inside. Are you satisfied? Will you now leave me to my duty?”

Madeleine said nothing. There was a war raging inside him, from his desire to wrap Javert in his coat and ferry him home, fill him with warm food and tuck him into bed, and his need to trail his fingers over Javert’s leg, feel the muscles in his thigh, perhaps even delve between and--

Javert tilted his head to the side and gave Madeleine a considering look.

“I come here often, you know,” he said. “I have managed to catch several wanted men. But a job is not worth doing unless done well, as I’m sure you are aware. I have, therefore, learned many skills--skills that I believe you would not turn away.”

Madeleine stumbled back and fell hard on the wood floor. “I’m certain that I don’t have any idea--”

He was also certain that he had never seen the Inspector smile. He was grinning now, a wide, terrible thing, that made his teeth glint and his eyes dull.

“You have been courting me for months, Monsieur le Maire. If I had been a woman, it would have been courting. Do not deny it. You want, Monsieur Madeleine. And here, I will not deny you.” A wild laugh rose in his throat. “Here I cannot deny you.”

Madeleine felt a deep illness in the pit of his stomach, a queasiness as though he had eaten bad meat. “I do not understand why you say these things,” he said. “I do not understand what madness has taken you. Is it the fever?”

“Perhaps,” Javert said, sombering. His hand skittered over the hem of his dress. “Perhaps not. I have--I have been coming here so long. If I was out of line, I do apologize. My false identity--it overcomes myself, sometimes. I forget myself.”

There came a knock at the door, then, and a woman’s voice tittering.

“Dear, there is a gentleman here who says you were expecting him.”

“Thank you,” Javert called back. “Please, Monsieur. Leave. Through that door there--” he indicated a small back door hidden in the shadows--“so that he will not see you.”

Madeleine hesitated, but Javert’s face was stone, and he found he had little choice. He slipped through the door and found himself in a tiny cupboard, from which he could peer through the keyhole.

He watched Javert straighten himself and allow in a man. A brutish figure, dressed all in black, with a hat to cover his face and a heavy walking-stick. He braced the stick against Javert’s chest and shoved the man to the mattress.

Madeleine could not look away.


	3. Chapter 3

Of all the things that could and often did go wrong with Javert’s investigations, the sudden appearance of M. Madeleine was one he had, of course, accounted for. He had planned out exactly what he would say, so that Madeleine would agree with his course of action and leave swiftly so that Javert might continue unhindered. What he had not accounted for, however, was the way his body flushed with humiliation when Madeleine caught him with his legs bare and his guard shaken, nor did he plan a way to deal with the sudden rush of blood to his face and to--elsewhere--when Madeleine did not simply leave but lifted Javert into his arms like a child. And then Madeleine’s hands began to wander, stroking the exposed skin of Javert’s thighs, and he found himself quite at a loss. 

Even aside from his own discomfort, there was a more pressing concern about Madeleine’s inconvenient presence. The client for whom Javert was waiting would arrive soon, and although the lady who owned the house had been instructed to send the gentleman to Javert, not being the one to greet him put Javert at a stark disadvantage. The man would surely be expecting some beautiful young thing, and though Javert knew he could easily sway the man’s opinion given the chance, that opportunity was ruined. 

And so, Javert found he had a single option: To dissuade Madeleine from assisting him further, and to make the mayor so uncomfortable that he had no choice but to leave at once. Consequently, he would lose the rapport he shared with Madeleine, but, he consoled himself, such things were inappropriate between a superior and his subordinate.

A great many things between them were inappropriate. By the time the sun rose, Javert intended that their friendship would be the least of them.

He accused the mayor of vile desires, exposed himself and suggested that Madeleine wanted nothing more than to put his hands on Javert and take what he would. He watched the expression on Madeleine's face turn from shock to consideration to disgust, and felt terribly, horribly proud. Still, he failed, as Madeleine quickly faltered and became compassionate. That infernal charity that Javert would toss aside like so much waste. He was not a man to be pitied.

Madeleine asked what illness could have taken Javert that he would speak in such a manner, that he would suggest Madeleine would like to do unspeakable things to him on a filthy mattress in a broken whorehouse. Worse, he made to touch Javert's forehead as if in benediction. As if he would bestow forgiveness upon Javert. Forgiveness—! Ha! For doing his duty? For pushing Madeleine away before he might ruin Javert's investigation? Or perhaps Madeleine believed that Javert spoke in such a manner because he desired it!

If the situation were not so strained, Javert would laugh. He would make Madeleine laugh as well, and then explain exactly what his investigations had won the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer. But he found himself apologizing instead, making excuses for his behaviour, saving them, and although Madeleine did not quite look convinced that Javert's words were merely a result of having been pretending for too long, he did look somewhat relieved. 

Madeleine was about to say something further, perhaps accept Javert's apology though he did not in the least deserve it, but there came a knock and the lady of the house called for him. The man he awaited had come at last. At once, Javert felt a thrill, a rush of pleasure in anticipation of the arrest he would shortly make—and yet at the same time, cold fear gripped him. He was not alone in the room, and there was no means to insist he and his prey find other accommodations. He glanced around the room frantically until he located a small closet.

“Please, Monsieur,” he said, ushering the mayor through the tiny door. “So that he will not see you.”

Madeleine went, uncomplaining, and Javert closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath in order to remember himself and his duty. Yes, the mayor was still in the room, and could likely hear every word and, through the large keyhole, see a great deal of what Javert was about to do. He had to remember that it would be better, in the end; no matter what transpired, he would have a witness in Madeleine and, with luck, his testimony.

Javert allowed the man inside.

It was, indeed, the man he had been waiting for. He was taller than Javert, and wider, and he wore many layers of heavy black coats to make himself appear even more imposing. He wore a hat, as well, which cast his face in half-shadow, but it was not enough to disguise him. The man also carried a heavy, knobbed walking stick and it was this that he used to push Javert to the mattress.

Javert grunted at the impact, forcing himself to keep from rubbing at his chest where he was struck. Instead, he parted his knees and glanced up at the criminal.

“Monsieur, I fear I am likely not what you pictured when you came into this place,” he said. “But I assure you, whatever you may desire, my price is more than fair.”

The man laughed. “The good Madame told me of you. She said even the most depraved desires would not cause you to flee, and that you would even enjoy it.”

“This is true,” Javert said, willing his hands not to tremble. He hitched up the skirt of his dress further, exposing his thigh up to his ass. “Yet I am not convinced you can afford my price.”

“You will be paid when I am satisfied,” the man said; of course, no man with a lick of sense would pay a whore before she performed. But there were other ways to convince a man to show his wealth.

Slowly, Javert lowered his dress over his leg again, and he frowned at the would-be client. “I ask not for my whole purse, only for a small token. Might that be agreeable?”

The man considered. Javert held his breath, his body tense and prepared for violence. He could nearly hear Madeleine do the same behind the closet door.

Finally, after a long moment, the man nodded. His face broke into a mocking smile. “Of course. Beauty for... well, for willingness, I suppose.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a chain, which he tossed onto the mattress. Javert picked it up.

“But, this is the Mayor's seal! Are you in his employ?”

“Let us say it was a gift, and leave it at that, shall we?” The man grabbed a fistful of Javert's hair and hauled him in close, so that Javert's mouth was pressed against the crotch of his trousers. “I believe I have purchased you for the night.”

Javert looked up, stared into the empty black eyes of the thief before him, and smiled. “I believe not,” he said.

“Excuse me?” the man said, but that was all he managed as Javert was on his feet in an instant, kicking behind the man's knees and forcing him to the mattress. The man roared in anger and rushed towards him, but Javert was ready. He caught the man by the waist and flipped him, forcing him to land head-first on the wooden floor. Then Javert straddled his hips, and forced his arms behind his back, and leaned in close.

“By the authority of the Police of Montreuil-sur-Mer, I am arresting you for theft,” Javert said. The man struggled beneath him, but Javert was stronger. “Ah, and Monsieur le Maire, if you would be so kind as to fetch the handcuffs beneath the mattress?”

He glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at the mayor, who was half-emerged from the closet and looking at Javert as though he was watching a dog recite Voltaire. “Beneath the--”

“The mattress, yes. And if you would identify the chain as well?”

Madeleine handed Javert the cuffs, and then picked up the chain while Javert restrained his prisoner. “Oh, yes. I recall giving this to a wealthy benefactor of the school in town. He gave the money to build a whole new wing. I gave this in gratitude for his good service.”

“Do you recall the gentleman's name?” Javert asked.

“Monsieur Leroux, I believe.”

Javert climbed off of the man and dragged him up to his knees. “And here I was thinking you only robbed the houses of honest citizens scraping by a meagre living and dishonest prostitutes scraping by a broken existence,” he said. “It appears you have finer things on your mind. Ah, it matters not. With the mayor's witness, I will ensure you spend the next twenty years in the galleys.”

He picked up the criminal's walking stick and wielded it in front of the man's eyes. “Now. Once Madame arrives with my trousers and coat, I will escort you to your cell. Do not try to escape.” Javert brought the stick down hard on the thief's shoulder as a warning, relishing the loud crack and soft cry from his captive. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said.

A hand touched Javert's own shoulder, and he flinched away before attempting to turn it into a sort of half-bow. Madeleine continued to regard him curiously.

“If you permit, I will... I will accompany you.”

“Monsieur le Maire, I cannot--”

“The streets are dangerous at night. I would feel safer if we went together.”

Javert could not tell if Madeleine meant that he would feel safer leaving Javert in the company of a dangerous criminal if Madeleine were also there, or that Madeleine would feel safer walking the streets with Javert for protection. He doubted it was the latter option, as Madeleine often wandered at night with no regard for his own safety, but suspected that was the one Madeleine intended Javert to believe.

“Very well,” he agreed.

He tried to ignore the way Madeleine regarded him, with a naked gaze trailing Javert's equally naked legs, and with a hunger in his eyes that proved Madeleine had indeed seen Javert's domination of the criminal, and that it affected Madeleine in ways he deemed wholly inappropriate.

And this, then, caused Javert to wonder—Had his efforts to send Madeleine away, to cause Madeleine to hate him through a clumsy and feigned seduction, had they instead lit a fire within the mayor? And if so, wasn't Javert then to blame?

The thought led nowhere good, and as it had been a strange and uncomfortable night, Javert chose instead to don his coat and trousers and shoved his prisoner out the door. Madeleine was close behind. And Javert's mind was a turmoil.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains: somewhat vague mentions of rape, internalized homophobia, and masturbation

After ensuring that the thief was taken to prison and Javert was sent home with a few extra francs in his pocket, Madeleine retreated to his home. He had hoped that accompanying Javert would clear his mind. The night air and the sight of the Inspector performing his duty, he had reasoned, would be sufficient to erase the unwanted thoughts crawling through his head. It would, too, be enough to cool his traitorous flesh.

But he had been wrong; the images he had been confronted with earlier in the night continued to haunt him even when he retired to his bed, and his skin continued to burn. He ached, in a way he did not fully understand, and quickly discovered that the mere attempt to remove his trousers made the problem worse. 

He ended up stripping himself of boots and overcoat and cravat, but otherwise remaining dressed as he slid under the blankets and extinguished his candle. Immediately, Madeleine found himself regretting it—here in the dark, it felt as though his thoughts had room to grow, to thrive, to torment him unbound by the civility his station required. In the dark, he could remember a cell, dirt floor and iron bars, and the rhythmic clang of chains that accompanied filthy grunting and pained whimpers. Though he had never himself indulged in such base perversions, he fell asleep to the sound of rutting more often than not.

He had understood, in a distant sense, why these couplings occurred. The need for the smallest piece of control had been overwhelming and they had turned to... _that_ to get it. It made sense, and while he himself had never felt the need to assert dominance (his impressive strength and even more impressive presence ensured that he was left alone) he understood. Less clear were the men who touched as lovers might, but, after months or years separated from their wives, he supposed it could not be helped.

Yet, in all that time, he himself had never felt the need. He had not felt it before Toulon, either, nor had he felt it in the time since he cast Valjean aside and became M. Madeleine. Not until he saw Javert sitting on the stoop of a whorehouse.

Madeleine tried desperately to chase away that very image, but it was to no avail. He could remember perfectly the way the soft blue fabric draped over Javert's bare thigh, exposing the long line of his leg to Madeleine's wandering eyes. To Madeleine's fingers, too, if he were bold enough—but Javert had been playing the part of a whore, and it would not have been out of the ordinary to rest a hand on his knee, to move his hand slowly higher, while discussing Javert's price. And Javert would blush, of course, ashamed of his own nakedness and the obvious desire that could not be hidden by such a flimsy garment.

It would not take much; a few well-placed comments and a heavy purse, Madeleine had discovered, could make a man do many things. This time, Javert would lead him upstairs, hitching the dress even higher, exposing the backs of his knees, and Madeleine would itch to touch there, but he would resist. He paid for the full night. 

He imagined the room Javert led him to would be much finer than the one they had occupied earlier, with its tiny closet and moldy mattress. No—there would be a fine suite set up for the most honored clients, with a proper bed and wash-basin.

Madeleine would not be content to let Javert upon the bed yet, however; he would instead insist upon pressing Javert to the wall, and sliding his hand underneath the skirt (and here, Madeleine's hand traveled up his own body, and his fingers began unlacing his trousers). He wondered what Javert would sound like. He had heard many of the sounds men made in the heights of pleasure, but when he recalled them now, none seemed quite right for the Inspector.

He pressed his hand inside his trousers. His prick was hard, and had been hard since he had crouched in the closet earlier, and to touch it sent a wave of brilliant agony through his body. Madeleine writhed on his bed and moaned softly. It was nearly right, though he suspected the Inspector's voice would be deeper.

Javert would not be content to simply have Madeleine stroke the insides of his thighs. He would soon demand pleasure in other ways, though Madeleine was at a loss to understand what men actually did in the dark. He supposed he might do this, pleasuring Javert with his hands as he did himself.

It took little time at all for Madeleine to come. His body convulsed, and his breath quickened, and he felt for a brief moment that God might actually be striking him down for his thoughts. But then it was wonderful, brilliant, like he was soaring through the sky only to find he had not left his bed and there was a stickiness between his legs.

Madeleine fixed his trousers slowly. An illness had taken him. It was not only the obsession with Javert and the twisted desire to claim his body, but a heaving of his stomach and of his soul. He could feel the fires of Hell licking the bottoms of his feet, the claws of the Devil tearing the skin of his arms. He wished to scream, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out save a whimper like that of a child.

He fumbled for his rosary only to remember he had given it to Javert.

His prayers were frantic and troubled and as he drifted to sleep they became wilder and more inconsistent.

When he did eventually succumb, his dreams were no less troubled. He was chained in Toulon again, and he was nothing but a number, and the chains were heavy on his wrists and collar. Above, he saw Javert, wearing his small blue dress and carrying a cudgel.

Madeleine woke with the sound of his own screams and the prisoners' laughter ringing in his ears.

~ * ~

There was always much to do at the factory. For much of the morning, Madeleine found himself focused entirely on necessary tasks, and he did not allow his mind to wander. Near midday, however, the foreman came to ask Madeleine's advice on a new technique he had seen one of the women in the factory using, and Madeleine found his focus entirely shaken. Even when the matter was settled and he had returned to his desk, he could not complete his work with the same diligence His mind continued to wander.

Javert often came just before Madeleine left to take supper at his home, report in hand and request, if there were any, prepared. He did not know if Javert planned to come that evening as well, or if Javert was still ashamed of their encounter. Madeleine wished he could tell the Inspector that he had done excellent work and there was nothing to be ashamed of—but that would be a lie. 

There was a great deal both of them should be ashamed of, and Madeleine knew it. He knew it as well as he had known Javert's lack of discomfort while straddling a dangerous man should have been a warning; he knew it as well as he had known the filth between his legs only a few hours earlier. He knew it in the way the blue dress refused to leave him alone, and the way he itched to know if Javert planned to return to the docks that night, as well.

Madeleine was just completing his work and preparing to go home—with the understanding that Javer was indeed ashamed enough to be avoiding him—when there came a knock at his door. And on the other side, dressed in a clean uniform and black gloves, standing with his back straight and his feet slightly apart and his chin held high, was Javert.

“My dear Inspector!” Madeleine cried. His voice sounded too high, too happy, and he knew Javert could read through his falseness. “Please, I must have your report.”

“The thief I caught has been sentenced to twelve years in the galleys,” Javert said. “I thank you, Monsieur, for your assistance, and wish to offer you a portion of my reward.”

“Nonsense,” Madeleine said. This was familiar ground, then. Javert hated to be in anyone's debt, and though Madeleine often felt the same, Javert's self-reliance ran far deeper than Madeleine's own. “I merely hid in a closet. You were the one who won his confession. You placed shackles on his wrists and bars in front of his face.”

Javert bowed his head. “I thank you. And—if you—I will not be returning to—the place we met. I have sufficiently met my needs for this month, and I have no knowledge of further crime. Perhaps this will change in time, but now, I must return to my post.”

Madeleine tried not to be too disappointed. He tried to pretend as though he had not been ready to rush down to the docks the second he was free from the factory. He failed in both, and it was then, as Javert gave him a curt nod and strode out and Madeleine's gaze traveled instantly to the curve of his buttocks hidden by his coat, that Madeleine knew he was damned.


End file.
